


With or Without You

by euromagpie



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Parallel Universes, canon typical trans and homophobic comments, howard is respected for once in his life, vince is the underdog
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19721212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euromagpie/pseuds/euromagpie
Summary: On his way back from a night out, Vince is hit by a car, and finds his whole world changed. Upon calling Howard for help, he finds the two resuming their jobs at Bob Fossil's Zooniverse. Only, this time, Howard Moon is head keeper, and respected by his peers; the same peers who consider Vince nothing but a nuisance who has to be constantly supervised.But worse than this is that Howard doesn't dote on Vince like he used to; in fact, he doesn't seem to like him at all. Vince finds he's not even invited to the upcoming wedding of Mr and Mrs Gideon-Moon....wait, what?





	With or Without You

The moon grinned dopily in the sky as Vince staggered from the bright lights of the Velvet Onion into the dark streets. He gave a cheery wave and sloppy smile to the doormen, to the few people still trickling in at 3am and to the cat furiously masturbating above a sewer hole. Clumsily, he flicked his dark hair back and tried to focus his eyes.

The world was dark, with the oily yellow of the laxly maintained streetlights overhead providing dim light as he started making his way home. The thumping music and loud yelling of drunks started to fade away, becoming comforting background noise with the honks and hums of early morning traffic; London never sleeps, after all. Vince’s breath sounded loud to his own ears. His hands gipped railings and trailed along brick alley walls.

He was _very_ drunk.

Normally, after finishing up in the club for the night he’d join some people he met there for a couple more piss-ups or a kebab before heading back to the Nabootique, but tonight Vince just wanted to be alone. His stomach was fizzing unpleasantly, and the world kept swimming in and out of focus, the yellows and whites of distant lights smearing under the thumb of the night. He shook his head again. He’d need to fix his fringe soon, it was becoming a bother, and fringes were short and straight this season anyway.

Vince briefly considered taking off his tall platforms and walking barefoot back, but even in his state, the thought of slicing his feet open on discarded needles and broken glass, kept him high and stumbling along uncomfortably.

He stumbled out of the alleyway and was suddenly hit full force with loud honking again, and the brilliantly illuminated storefronts of late-night takeaways. He winced, trying to ignore his pinching toes as a tottered over to the zebra crossing.

Vince didn’t see the car.

He just felt the impact of three thousand pounds of metal slam into him at 20 miles per hour. Searing pain shot through him as he was sent ragdolling, bashing into a nearby bollard, his neck snapping back and then forward. He didn’t even make a sound, the air driven forcibly from his lungs in the collision, leaving him to flop over, half into the street, chest heaving as it tried to regain the breath stolen.

Vince’s world narrowed to a pin-prick, black dominating, as his body screamed. He floated in the painful darkness for what seemed like years, until his stomach finally rebelled and before he could stop himself, his back arched as he vomited, the sick dribbling down the side of his face and into his hair. At lightspeed, his world opened up again.

He was lying down, his cheek pressed into the tarmac, grainy bits of rock digging into his skin. The world sat at a 90 degree angle, the smears of light elongated in his blurred vision. It was like he’d stuck his head under-water; all the sound was muffled as a pressure built in his head, only to suddenly pop. As colour came to him, so did noise, loud, sharp, piercing his head with crying arrows.

Vince groaned.

He tried to move and found that it was possible. With great difficulty, Vince tried to prop himself up on his arms, only for his elbows to collapse, bashing his head back into the ground. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him, and the tears that came to his eyes.

Somewhere in the back of his head, Vince’s mental secretary made a note that he must look absolutely horrendous, covered in vomit and tears, bruised and floppy on the road of some chippie-lined road in Dalston’s backside. His hair must be a _mess_.

It was that thought in the end, that gave Vince the strength to floppily roll out of the road and fully onto the pavement.

“Oi, you alright, luv?”

Vince winced painfully, screwing his eyes shut, as a voice rang out, too close, too loud, from above him. He felt a large, rough hand on his shoulder, and for a second his body relaxed, thinking ‘ _Howard_ ’.

“Young lady? Can you hear me? Oh Jesus.”

All thoughts of Howard evaporated. The voice lacked his Northern twang.

Vince forced his eyes open.

An elderly man was bent over him, his wrinkles deep in concern as he reached for Vince’s hair.

“Gerrof.” Vince murmured, flapping his hands around, trying to protect his hair from any more battery today.

“Oh, thank goodness. You alright?” The man asked.

Vince wanted to break out the sarcasm, the autocue already scrolling in his mind.

_Yeah, mate, I’m absolutely great! Fantastic! That’s why I’m taking a kip in a road, bent up like a pretzel, with a face ready to star in DOOM. That’s the hottest new look, y’know, accident chic._

Instead, the only thing that came out was,

“pshfw-“ as a bit of liquid dribbled from his lip. Vince wiped it off with the back of his hand. He stared at the red smear on his white skin, and suddenly, freaked out.

His whole body tensed, shaking, the pain tussling shock for first position in Vince’s hierarchy.

“Howard. Howard. How-“ He grit his chattering teeth against the involuntary mutterings.

“Just keep lying down luv, I’m calling an ambulance.” The voice floated over to him again.

Vince shrank in on himself at the though of anyone seeing him in his state. Paramedics of not. What if someone told? What if some of his friends were in the A&E when he got there? What if the paramedics took a look at him and laughed?

“’M fine. I’m fine. Don’t.” He slurred, the preoccupation with his status finally giving him the strength to force his body into a slumped, sitting position. Nothing felt broken.

But then, Vince had never broken a bone before in his life, so what did he know?

His secretary made a note to ask Howard next time he was trying to focus on something in peace.

“You shouldn’t move. Stay still.”

“I told you. I’m finnnnnnne.” Vince tried to unstick his tongue, the blood in his mouth already starting to clot and crust over. He felt his stomach rebel at the new bodily position, but with the experience of a borderline alcoholic, he forced it down, working through the swimming world as he fumbled for the top of the nearby bollard, pulling himself as near to upright as he could get. It was more akin to an octogenarian attempting yoga, but it would have to do.

Vince was giving Howard a run for his money with how narrow his eyes were, trying to block out the excess light but still seeing the old man trying to fumble his way across the number pad of his phone.

As the old man tried to figure out how to use his phone, Vince made a lurching stumble away from him, launching himself with just his momentum across the same street he’d been struck on. The world seemed one step behind him, tilting and swaying like the horizon on a pirate ship. Still, his feet, aching at the ankle as they did now in his go-go boots, remembered the way, carrying him further away from the distant “ _Hey!”_ behind him and closer to Howard and the Nabootique. He could already feel the comforting fuss Howard would make as soon as he saw him, the strong, furry support from Bollo, and the healing energy Naboo would no doubt be able to summon up, despite first acting annoyed at being woken up so early.

He turned corner after corner, at times dragging his feet, at time barely keeping his body upright as they stumbled.

Finally, finally…

He palmed the grimy window of the shitty bakery he passed by every day, waded past the Tesco Express, the charity shop, the _other_ charity shop, the store-front that never seemed to open, and finally, squished between Davidson’s Electricals and the tiny Greggs…

The Nabootique.

Vince faceplanted onto the front door, the cold of the night finally catching up to him, night-breeze slipping bitter hands into the deep v of his jumpsuit, making him shiver. He thumped the doorbell.

He thumped the doorbell again.

Silence reigned. He couldn’t even hear the irritating jazz jingle Howard had installed as revenge.

 _If I have to be woken up at 4am to let you in_ , he’s explained as he made a real pig’s ear of the electricals, despite claiming to know how to install a new alarm, _you can listen to a few good moments of ‘Goodbye Pork Pie Hat’_.

 _Well why don’t you just gimme a key, then?_ Vince had asked, lounging in the dentist chair, a copy of _Heat_ open on his lap.

_I’m not letting you lose another key, Vince. Besides, it’s not as though you’ve got any pockets in those catsuits of yours._

Vince had had to concede the point.

He gave the bell another, more pointed press. Nothing.

After nearly going to sleep leaning against the door, he jerked awake, stumbling back a few feet to look up at the windows. No light peeked from the darkness, not even the faint glow of Howard’s reading lamp that he would always forget to switch off before falling asleep on top of a book he didn’t enjoy but thought was intellectual. He’d been working on the same three chapters of Thus Spoke Zarathustra for years.

Vince blinked, as an uncomfortable realisation started to dawn on him.

His eyes drifted from Howard’s window, down, to the bright yellow and red sign that denoted the shop.

The sign that wasn’t there.

He shook his head, gritting his teeth against the sharp pulse it set through his brain, prodding his brain secretary. She just shrugged, buffing her nails.

 _The sign ain’t there, sugar, dunno what to tell ya_.

It really wasn’t. The backdrop stood out, dark grey backing, with a few nails and glue remnants from the last sign that had been up.

Vince’s eyes moved even further down, to the shop-front, only to get a shock when he found them painted over with white and plastered with newspaper. His breath caught sharply in his chest as he took a few shaking steps towards the window, pressing a hand to the cold glass.

“What…” He slumped to the floor as his day finally caught up to him. Sleep swamped him.

He woke to hands on him.

“Geddoffme!” He shouted. He tried to shout. His throat tore at the sudden motion, making him bend over double, coughing, and it seemed like once he started, he couldn’t stop, every breath irritating his chords more. He was gasping, tears coming to his eyes, his head feeling like it was tearing itself apart as a mixture of trauma and hangover battled for control.

“Is ‘e dyin’?” He heard someone say off to the side. There was a brief scuffle, before a heavy-handed thump on his back, drove a particularly wretched cough out of him.

“Wot you tryin’ to do, Jerry? Bloke’s coughin’, not chokin’!”

“Don’ see you doing anyfing.”

Vince gave one last, scraping inhale, before collapsing back again, head thumping. His fuzzy vision came into focus. In a strange parody of the night before, Vince was once more loomed over. The morning light, grey and stale, illuminated the people, two men and a woman. They looked like typical Londoners, with loose jeans halfway down their bums and the girl with her hair teased and crimped into oblivion. She was smoking as the other two peered down at him.

“A’ight.” One said.

“What time izzit?” Vince mumbled, rubbing his face. His lip gave a sharp twinge, and his finger came away with blood on it. Something inside him wanted to freak out again, but he was too tired and burned out to respond with anything more than mild alarm.

“It’s 8.”

“Nearly 9.” The girl muttered.

“Nearly 9.”

“Make it half eight.”

“About half eight.”

“Eight fourty-one if you wanna be pacific.”

“I think it’s ‘specific’.”

“Wot is?”

Vince’s focus swam in and out as the group bickered.

“You supposed to be somewhere, mate?”

Vince came back to reality at being addressed.

“Here.” He said, at least sure of that.

“I don’t think so. If the filth catch ya, they’ll have ya up like that for loiterin’.”

“What do you care?” Vince frowned.

“I don’t gotta, y’know. Just fought, wiv you lookin’ all beat up ‘n’ all I’d check if you was dead. If all y’are is attitude tho, we can just go an’ leave ya to ya biznis.” He shrugged.

Vince frowned for a moment.

“Sorry.” He mumbled.

“C’mon, Jez, he’s obviously high.” The other man said, tugging on Jerry’s jacket.

“Look, you need help getting’ home?” Jerry asked, unfazed.

Vince worried his lip, opening the cut up wider. He barely felt the sting under the throbbing headache he had, and the nausea that was trying to crawl its way up his throat. He didn’t think he had anything left to throw up after yesterday.

“Dun suppose I could nick a couple’a quid?”

Vince found a phone booth eventually. His whole body was protesting the move, stiff and bruised, but even in his state he recognised he’d need to move. Sitting in the shadow of the Nabootique’s skeleton wasn’t doing him any good. It was giving him a rotten feeling, like unsafe ground threatening to collapse under him. He was trying his best not to think; Howard did the thinking. Vince was at his very best when he just did what came to him in the moment. Planning and thinking is when things go wrong in his life.

He gripped the cold metal with a shaking hand as he dropped the coins in the slot with a metallic clang. His fingers pressed the keys he knew by heart – Vince didn’t really have a memory, information just floated through his head, occasionally getting caught on spiky bits of cranium, and that information tended to be Jagger shaped. Howard’s number was one of the rare things not related to fashion or music that hung around in his brain space.

The phone rang.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Vince shifted in his jumpsuit. Standing still, he was now becoming aware of how crusty his clothes were, drenched with sweat, spilled alcohol, vomit and – Vince tried hard not to think about it – probably blood. The cloth was sticking to him, clinging to his crevices in a way that made him wrinkle his nose.

Finally, he was distracted as the phone picked up.

“Hello, Howard Moon here.”

Vince nearly collapsed with relief. Just hearing Howard’s voice put him at ease. The familiar twang spelled comfort and safety, ever since they were kids. He let the few words wash over him, knowing that, whatever was going on with Naboo’s shop, everything would be okay now.

“Hello?” Howard repeated, beginning to sound irritated.

“’Oward, it’s me, Vince.”

“Vincent? Where the hell are you? You were supposed to fix up the marsupials this morning, before the inspectors came along! I picked up your slack, by the way, so you owe me overtime. You keep this up, and I won’t put in a good word for you with Fossil when he’s looking to drop you next time.”

Vince’s eyes bugged as he listened to Howard’s rant.

The rotten feeling was back.

From the first word, Vince knew something was wrong. Howard _never_ called him ‘Vincent’. Never. No matter how bad their arguments got. And what was this thing about the marsupials? And Fossil? Since when was Howard talking to Fossil again?

He must have made some sort of noise down the line, because Howard paused.

“Why’re you calling, anyway? You usually don’t make excuses for sick days until you come in the next day.” He said.

Vince tightened his grip on the red receiver. He gave a full-body shudder. There was no fondness in Howard’s voice.

“Can you pick me up?” Vince asked, surprised at how small his voice came out.

He must have sounded pretty pathetic, because the cold tone of Howard’s voice gave way to wary concern. Vince couldn’t help but smile; there was no argument that could stop Howard’s natural concern towards others.

“What’s up with you?”

“Had an accident last night. Car hit me. Shop’s closed. Dunno what to do.” He whined down the line.

There was a pause.

“…Where are you?”

When Howard’s battered old car pulled up beside him, Vince was sitting slumped against the phone booth, head in both hands, trying to keep his brain in one piece, and really, _really_ trying not to think about any of the weird things that had happened to him so far.

The double thunk of a sticky car door being yanked open and then knocked closed made Vince lift his head.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was Howard. Of course it was. His hair was the same as when Vince had left him last night, the same wrinkles under his eyes. But his moustache was fuller and shinier, and his face was twisted into an irritated frown.

And his clothes…

Vince thought he’d never see Howard in Zooniverse green again, but there he was. He even looked neater than he ever did back when they worked at the zoo; his hair was tamed with pomade, his face precisely shaved. Even his shirt was tucked in, something Howard never did. He’d always said an untucked shirt was the sign of an adventurous man, of a rebel never mind that he did up his top-button and ironed his jacket every morning.

“You look like shit.” Howard said, looking down at him, “and what the _hell_ are you _wearing_?”

Somehow the last comment hit Vince the hardest – Howard had always been the one person who never sneered at his choice of wardrobe. When as a kid he’d turn up to school wearing the girls’ uniform, nicked from lost and found, Howard had just made sure none of the other kids looked up the skirt when he climbed the stairs. When he started wearing makeup, Howard had carried tissues around for when the cheap drugstore mascara would run from his energetic activities. Despite clearly being fed-up with Vince’s _huge_ and ever-changing collection of clothes, he never insulted his clothes with that tone of _disgust_. Before he could stop himself, Vince folded his arms over his chest, blushing with shame.

Howard sighed.

“Come on.”

Vince let himself be yanked up by a strong hand, leaning instinctively on him.

“Oy, keep your hands off, yeah?”

Howard shrugged him off brusquely, instead roughly depositing him in the backseat. Vince slumped over, the warmth of the car and the relative softness of the seat giving him a sense of safety from Howard, who was becoming more and more agitated. He could feel the slow-brewing anger in him. As the car peeled off, he saw the eyes under Howard’s furrowed brow glare at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Look, Vincent, what you do with your time is your business. But I am your boss. I’m not going to bail you out every time you get yourself into trouble.”

“I wasn’t-“

“Oh really? So, dressing like some slag and being covered in vomit has nothing to do with you being out of your mind at 9am on a weekday?”

Every word he spoke hit Vince like a sledgehammer. He’d though Howard and him had had some pretty vicious arguments recently, but they paled in comparison to these words, delivered with casual cruelty in a calm fashion.

“I got hit by a car.” He offered.

Howard rolled his eyes.

“You don’t look too bad off.”

Vince frowned. That was cold even for this new, angry Howard. His expression must have shown on his face, because Howard sighed, and scrubbed one hand over his face.

“Look, just- do you need to go to the hospital or not?”

Vince shook his head, gripping the edge of the backseat. He hadn’t buckled himself in, but Howard drove like he was lulling Nanas to sleep, so he was never in any danger.

“Good. You can clock in at least some time at the zoo then. Y’know Fossil’s really on the edge of just firing you, right?”

A silence descended on the car. Vince started to see the familiar landmarks that indicated they were approaching the zoo. He kept quiet, until he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Wot’s going on, Howard? Why’re you working back at the zoo? What happened to the Nabootique? Why’re you so mad at me? I dunno what’s goin’ on!”

Vince was panicking. Like, proper panicking. As he stumbled over more and more questions, the trepidation that set seed that night was blooming. He though Howard would clear up what happened with the shop. There would be an easy explanation; maybe Naboo had been caught on tax evasion and he’s disguised the shop and was in hiding as the Tax Shaman looked for him. Or, or, Bollo had gone into a mating frenzy and humped the shop into bits and they had to move to another location. Or Old Gregg had stolen the shop to convince Howard to move in with him. Any explanation.

Vince just wanted things to go back to normal.


End file.
